“I am sorry, but I can’t do that,” said Tom firmly. “What I have to say is for the doctor personally.” Then he had an idea. Raising his voice, so it would penetrate down the long hall to the doctor’s private library, the boy said: “If I can’t see Dr. Spidderkins now, I’ll wait here until I can.” He fairly shouted the doctor’s name. “Look here, you young rapscallion,” exclaimed the woman, “do you think I’m deaf?” “I didn’t know,” replied Tom, innocently, in his ordinary tones. “I thought maybe you were.” But he had accomplished what he desired, for the doctor, hearing his name called, had roused himself long enough from poring over his books to emerge from his room. He came toward the front door. “Who called me?” he asked. “I was just reading an account of the Marathon runner, who brought the news of that great victory. It is in a very rare volume, which I found yesterday on--Why, bless my soul! If it isn’t the boy from the book store. Let me see, I think I never paid you that ten dollars. Very forgetful of me, I’m sure. Come right in, and I’ll get it. How is Mr. Townsend?” “I’m not there any more,” said Tom. “But you paid the ten dollars all right. Don’t you remember, I thought I had lost it?” “Oh, so you did. That was the night you brought me the rare volume about--er--um--well, really I have forgotten what it was about. But I remember now, you are an electrician.” “Not quite,” said Tom, with a laugh, “but that’s pretty near it. I’m a telephone boy, and I have a message for you.” “A telephone message?” “Not exactly; though it’s about a telephone.” “Come right into my study,” went on the doctor. “I was just reading a book on--why, bless my soul, I’ve forgotten what it was about. Oh, my wretched memory! I must try to be more careful.” He pulled out an easy chair for Tom, and then stood in the middle of the room, looking about him in some bewilderment. “What is the matter?” asked the boy. “Why--er--I have forgotten what we came here for.” “I came here with a message for you.” “Oh, yes. About a book.” “No; from your lawyer, Mr. Boise.” “Oh, yes, yes. You are in a law office. I remember now.” “It’s very important,” went on Tom, in a low voice, approaching close to the aged physician. “Perhaps I had better shut the door.” “No, no,” said the doctor. “Leave it open. If it’s closed, she’ll sneak up, and listen at the key hole. She’s--she’s a--a Tartar!” he exclaimed softly. “She makes life miserable for me. I don’t wonder my poor brother died. Come, we’ll go into an inner room. Then she can’t hear us.” He opened a door of a smaller apartment, leading from the main library. “This is where I keep the rarest books,” said the doctor. “There is one volume of Horace here that is worth--well, I really have forgotten for the moment just how much it is worth, but I know it is quite valuable. I picked it up the same day I secured a copy of Plato--but there--what have you to tell me?”